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Apr. 11th, 2004 12:33 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
taratemimaOriginal story. PG-13
I could steal you away from your husband. Of course, even with the intimate networks and odd sexual practices I have know, that is the one taboo I have. You don't steal other people's loves. Too many people have been hurt that way. I've seen people hurting, stolen people being used by the thief. Some of my friends are children of divorce because of adultery.
I wonder sometimes if you staying with him hurt you more. Oh, he's not abusing in anyway. It's just the cold of neglect and the hot of
jealousy is starting to get you. The stress of his unemployment makes you weary. He wants to go everywhere with you, but just wants to hang in corners. I am both sympathetic to him and wanting you.
It is a summer street fair. Bright batik and t-shirts are being sold, but they provide the only shade. You hang close to me, and we talk of light things: old 80s bands, horror movies, and your dog, currently at your sisters. Breed? Friendly shaggy mutt.
I made a promise, I remind myself as I look at your bright hazel eyes and long dark hair. I'm not going to be one of those people who say "Oh your husband is treating you terribly. I would never do that." I will support your relationships, and grit my teeth until I choke.
A band comes on, combining rhumbas and juju. I see you sway your full hips. I got to stop staring at your big breasts under a loose white t-shirt. I insert myself in pictures and puppy piles, afraid of being left out, afraid of being forgotten. That's why I am so close beside you while the band plays.
I grab your hand during fast Arabic and juju song. My other hand is on your hip and I sway to the music, taking you with me.
"Do you really know how to dance to this?"
I shake my head. You laugh and hold me closer during our improvised
waltz to a rhumba. You told me that you liked me because I was honest even when it hrut me. What if it hurt you?
You talk while we dance. "Christ, he's like a girl, I mean the stereotype. Never wants sex, is too stressed about the job interview he went to do anything. If it's not that, his allergies are acting up or he's got a migraine. All he needs is a 'time of the month.'"
I breath in and say "Have you talked to him about it," when I really want to say is "Come home with me." My reptile brain howls in
protest.
"Do you think it will do any good?"
"It can't hurt."
It's not fear of you rejecting me that keeps me in my friendly mode,
even as our hips are together and you're holding my hand.
It's more than being a friend, though. I cannot keep a commitment. I cannot compromise my habits for another person. I cannot stop looking for something better. Your heart will get broken by me.
So what am I doing dancing with her, being so close to her? I pull
away in the middle of the song and stammer apologies. You stare at me, mouth open like a fish.
"What's wrong? Hey, was it something I said?"
I see your husband come down the street, grumbling at the fried dough vendor. I wave to him, but he shakes his head at me.
You hug me goodbye, promises to talk to me later. I can hear your husband asking why you were dancing with me.
I could steal you away from your husband. Of course, even with the intimate networks and odd sexual practices I have know, that is the one taboo I have. You don't steal other people's loves. Too many people have been hurt that way. I've seen people hurting, stolen people being used by the thief. Some of my friends are children of divorce because of adultery.
I wonder sometimes if you staying with him hurt you more. Oh, he's not abusing in anyway. It's just the cold of neglect and the hot of
jealousy is starting to get you. The stress of his unemployment makes you weary. He wants to go everywhere with you, but just wants to hang in corners. I am both sympathetic to him and wanting you.
It is a summer street fair. Bright batik and t-shirts are being sold, but they provide the only shade. You hang close to me, and we talk of light things: old 80s bands, horror movies, and your dog, currently at your sisters. Breed? Friendly shaggy mutt.
I made a promise, I remind myself as I look at your bright hazel eyes and long dark hair. I'm not going to be one of those people who say "Oh your husband is treating you terribly. I would never do that." I will support your relationships, and grit my teeth until I choke.
A band comes on, combining rhumbas and juju. I see you sway your full hips. I got to stop staring at your big breasts under a loose white t-shirt. I insert myself in pictures and puppy piles, afraid of being left out, afraid of being forgotten. That's why I am so close beside you while the band plays.
I grab your hand during fast Arabic and juju song. My other hand is on your hip and I sway to the music, taking you with me.
"Do you really know how to dance to this?"
I shake my head. You laugh and hold me closer during our improvised
waltz to a rhumba. You told me that you liked me because I was honest even when it hrut me. What if it hurt you?
You talk while we dance. "Christ, he's like a girl, I mean the stereotype. Never wants sex, is too stressed about the job interview he went to do anything. If it's not that, his allergies are acting up or he's got a migraine. All he needs is a 'time of the month.'"
I breath in and say "Have you talked to him about it," when I really want to say is "Come home with me." My reptile brain howls in
protest.
"Do you think it will do any good?"
"It can't hurt."
It's not fear of you rejecting me that keeps me in my friendly mode,
even as our hips are together and you're holding my hand.
It's more than being a friend, though. I cannot keep a commitment. I cannot compromise my habits for another person. I cannot stop looking for something better. Your heart will get broken by me.
So what am I doing dancing with her, being so close to her? I pull
away in the middle of the song and stammer apologies. You stare at me, mouth open like a fish.
"What's wrong? Hey, was it something I said?"
I see your husband come down the street, grumbling at the fried dough vendor. I wave to him, but he shakes his head at me.
You hug me goodbye, promises to talk to me later. I can hear your husband asking why you were dancing with me.
